


Butterflies All Tied Up

by CitrusVanille



Category: McFly
Genre: First Time, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Masturbation, Sex, Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-05-18
Updated: 2009-05-18
Packaged: 2018-05-18 18:13:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,984
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5938180
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CitrusVanille/pseuds/CitrusVanille
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>By eleven o'clock, Tom has showered, changed into clean boxers and an old Star Wars tee-shirt, and settled in with pen, paper, and his guitar on the bed he's claimed for himself.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Butterflies All Tied Up

**Author's Note:**

> 9,000 words exactly (in Word). So many thanks to [](http://figletofvenice.livejournal.com/profile)[figletofvenice](http://figletofvenice.livejournal.com/) for being an awsome beta, and for giving me the idea for this in the first place, and then flailing with me. As we do.

By eleven o’clock, Tom has showered, changed into clean boxers and an old Star Wars tee-shirt, and settled in with pen, paper, and his guitar on the bed he’s claimed for himself. He still hasn’t come down off the adrenaline high from the show, but he hadn’t wanted to go out with the others to whatever bar or club they’d chosen – hadn’t been sure he could handle being that close to Dougie after the concert without doing something he shouldn’t. He’s tense, wired, frustrated with himself for not just getting over his stupid infatuation. He’s hoping he can burn through it all – at least for the moment – by working on the song he’s had stuck in his head for the past week.

An hour later, he’s gotten down maybe half a verse of shitty lyrics, and nothing on the guitar. He kind of wants to punch something.

Tom presses hard against the strings, feels them bite into his fingers, relishes the not-quite-pain. A moment later he releases, and abruptly puts the guitar down before he can pitch it across the room. He doesn’t want to have to deal with headlines tomorrow about how he trashed his room, and he doesn’t want to deal with his band wanting to know if he’s all right, which would probably be even worse than the headlines, though probably later in coming. Dougie won’t say anything to him, just give him worried looks when he gets back to the room at fuck-all in the morning, but he’ll tell Danny and Harry in the morning, and they’ll demand explanations. Somehow, he doesn’t think “I was just fucking frustrated, all right?” will cut it, and there’s no way in hell he can tell Dougie that part of the problem is the way Dougie’s shirt sticks to him when he sweats onstage.

He really wishes he had the balls to break something. He settles for swearing loudly and hurling his pen at the far wall. It is less than satisfying.

He’s starting to wish he’d gone out, but watching the others pull has never been his idea of a good time – hates that watching Dougie with girls still gives him a sick, jealous feeling in the pit of his stomach even after all these years – and one-night stands aren’t his thing. He likes to know who he’s going to wake up to in the morning, likes to know they’ll still be there after coffee, likes not having to scramble for clothes to avoid awkward goodbyes. He likes _relationships_. But right now, he’s wondering if the dark, sweaty beat of a club and the promise of anonymity would really be all that bad. Getting drunk or getting off – or both – might help loosen the tension in his muscles, dull the electricity under his skin, distract him. At least it might make it easier tonight, when Dougie’s asleep in the bed next to his, loose and languid and smelling like some random girl’s cheap perfume, and all Tom wants to do is curl up next to him and pretend he belongs there.

Tom frowns at himself and paces to the window, stares out at the city that’s not home. He grits his teeth and stalks to the television, picking up the remote and flipping channels. He’s not really sure what he’s looking for – anything to distract him, really – and starts to pace in front of the screen while movies and programs and advertisements flick by, nothing catchy enough to hold his interest for more than a few seconds.

_Fuck it,_ he thinks, and grabs his jeans off the chair he’d thrown them on, digging in the pockets for his phone. He punches in Dougie’s number, rationalizing that he’s the most likely to answer his phone, even if Harry’s more likely to know where they actually are – it’s got nothing at all to do with the way something warm curls in Tom’s stomach every time he hears Dougie’s voice, at even the thought of it. Tom really just needs to get out of here, _do_ something, some _one_ , maybe, if he can just – and he really hates himself like this, but he’s still buzzing with energy that has no where to go, and he feels itchy in his own skin, unfocused, tense, desperate, half turned on.

The music from the television is vaguely creepy, and Tom glances at the screen as he paces around the room, tapping the remote restlessly against his thigh, waiting for the phone to stop ringing and for Dougie to pick up, breath already catching in his throat. A guy in dark clothing is climbing in a window, and there’s another guy on the bed, looking fairly terrified. _Murder story,_ Tom thinks, but then. Then they’re both on the bed and, “Lie down,” says the first guy, and he’s pushing the other guy’s shirt off his shoulders, and.

There’s a click next to Tom’s ear, and a voice saying, “All right, mate? Hello? Tom?”

But Tom’s staring at the screen even as he shivers, staring at the shadowed figures twisting together, their breathing heavy, fingers curling into hair, and it’s not – this isn’t what he’d usually – but right now –

Both remote and phone fall from Tom’s fingers as he sits hard on the edge of his bed. The images on the screen flash once before vanishing as the set goes dark and the noise from the phone cuts off just as abruptly. He continues to stare at the blank screen, replaying the scene on repeat in his head, slowly getting longer as his mind continues from where the program cut off. He drums his fingertips against the bedspread, against his knees, feels hot and twitchy and the scrape of calluses on his bare skin makes his muscles jump and his breath hitch. He can still hear Dougie’s voice saying his name in his ear.

The phone buzzes against the carpet, but Tom ignores it, can’t – _can’t_ – actually talk to him, doesn’t want to hear confusion or worry in that voice, just needs the sound and images in his own head. He drags short nails up one leg, right to the edge of his boxers, then back. The phone stills for a moment, buzzes again, stops. Buzz stop buzz stop. Tom can almost feel the vibrations through the soles of his feet, though he’s not touching it, lets the phantom sensations run up his legs, hit his spine, and spread all the way out to his fingertips, shivers with it, closes his eyes and leans back on the bed.

Tom slides his fingers up one arm – barely-there contact that makes the short hairs stand on end – then down across his chest, the touch enough, even through his shirt, to make his breath catch. He lets his nails scrape against skin where his shirt rides up, then slides his hand up under the worn fabric, pressing his palm against his stomach, fingertips curling in just a little.

He runs his other hand up along his side, lets his nails catch against his throat, brushes the pad of his thumb over his lower lip. He lets the tip of his tongue dart out to sweep his lips, thumb, then slides his hand back down, flash of cool on wet over his chin before it dries. He dances his fingers over the waistband of his boxers, hip to hip and back, then, giving in, along the line of his cock.

His breath catches, fingers pressing hard into his stomach, but he keeps the touch on his cock feather-light, teasing, not enough not enough. Up, down – he can feel himself getting harder, breathing shallower. There’s sweat on his forehead, in the hollow of his throat, making his shirt stick to his chest, slick under his palm as he slides it just a bit lower.

He doesn’t usually do this, doesn’t tease when it’s just him, doesn’t usually see the point, when all he wants is to get off, but right now. Right now he wants this. Wants more than this. Wants something else entirely, maybe, and he doesn’t really know, just lets it build until it’s almost too much.

_Want want want,_ Tom thinks, pushes the heel of his hand against his cock, hips lifting to meet it, a gasp escaping his throat, and _Need need need._ He forces both hands away long enough to haul himself fully onto the bed – head against the pillows, the duvet kicked roughly aside so he’s lying on clean, cool sheets – then he’s slipping his fingers under the elastic waist of his boxers, pushing them down as slowly as he can manage, and then they’re gone, gone, and he’s wrapping one hand around his cock, and _fuck_ , that’s good.

_Oh, god, fuck,_ he thinks, tightens his fingers around his cock, lets himself get a little lost in the sensation. He slides his other hand up under his shirt, nails against the skin of his chest as he starts to jerk off properly, hand dry, and he swears out loud at the rough drag. Hand to his mouth to lick his palm, to ease the friction just enough – thinks, _oh, god, I want_ – the fingers of his other hand have dropped down, skimming his stomach, the crease of his thigh and. _Fuck fuck fuck,_ he thinks, licks his left palm instead, and Tom’s not used to jerking off left-handed, but knows enough to know he needs to be careful if he’s never. And he wants.

He presses his right index finger against his bottom lip for a moment, hips shifting with the slow movement of his left hand, then slides his finger past his teeth, tongue curling against the knuckle. He can feel his cheeks hollow when he sucks in a second finger, flicks his tongue between the two, and it feels _good_. It shouldn’t, it’s just his fingers, but. He can feel the vibrations of a moan against his hand, down his arm, and that’s _him_ moaning.

Tom moves his hand a little faster on his cock, and it’s awkward, still feels a little backwards, but good. Really good. Palm over the head, and he can feel the damp of pre-come already, uses it to make the glide of his hand easier.

He pulls his fingers free of his mouth, lets his arm fall, fingertips wet against his thigh, his balls, and. _Holy motherfucking hell,_ he thinks in the tiny section of his brain that hasn’t been completely swamped by sensation, because that’s his _arsehole_ , and what the fuck is he doing but. It feels _good_ and he _wants_ and.

The tip of his first finger slides in easy, and it doesn’t hurt, but it feels so _odd_. He pushes a little harder, slides it in a little farther, and moves his left hand a little faster on his cock, squeezes a little at the base. The dual sensation makes him gasp, and his head tilts back against the pillows, throat bared and arched like there’s someone there to offer it to. He twists his right hand, tries to move his finger, gasps again, slides his hand back, and shoves two fingers in, hard.

“ _Fuck_ ,” Tom hisses, voice loud in the room, but _fuck_ that hurt. He bites into his lower lip, but doesn’t pull his fingers out. He forces himself to focus on his left hand – still jerking himself off, faster, but still not too fast, drawing it out – and tries to relax while his body adjusts to the – _holy fuck_ – the _fingers_ in his _arse_ , because it’s rough and almost too dry and it _hurts_ but it’s still a _good_ hurt. His fingertips drag lightly over the head of his cock and he takes several deep, half-gasped breaths, his muscles slowly losing some of their tension. Then his hips move to meet the hand on his cock and the fingers in his arse shift, twisting and curling as shivers run along his spine, and _oh god, oh god_. Sparks go off behind his eyelids, and the tiny voice in his brain goes _oh god, prostate_ and then sort of fades into the background, too busy sending mixed signals as to whether he should be thrusting up into the hand on his cock or down onto his fingers.

He can hear his breath loud in his own ears, a jagged off-beat of the heavy pounding of his heart. His whole body is shaking, he feels a million degrees, and wishes he could get rid of his shirt, but he doesn’t have a hand to spare, can’t even focus on anything besides the feel of his hands and the sensation of spiraling closer. He jerks himself faster, hand tight, twisting over the head of his cock, and pushes his fingers in harder every time he drives his hips down – harder, harder, it’s not enough, not enough, but – his muscles shudder and clench as he fucks himself on his hand, heat building low in his stomach.

The wooden-metallic slam and the sound of someone-not-him gasping registers in delayed reaction. It’s several heartbeats before the noise breaks through the fog in Tom’s brain, and several more before it sinks in enough for his body to respond, going completely still, eyes dragging open, and.

_Oh god, oh god, oh god._ The words trail like a broken record through Tom’s head, staticky and faint. Petrified.

Tom can’t move, can’t do anything but stare at Dougie, breath frozen in his lungs. And Dougie – Dougie is staring right back, eyes wide and lips parted, barely two steps into the room, keycard still in his hand. The silence is deafening, broken only by the soft hiss of Dougie’s breath. Tom can’t breathe. His heart is slamming in his chest, and – he’d always thought it was just some fancy turn of phrase to say it felt like your heart was going to beat its way out, but this, this really fucking _hurts_. And he _can’t breathe_.

“Tom,” Dougie says, his voice slightly choked, and, “Oh God,” he says, and, “Can I fuck you?”

The trapped air leaves Tom’s lungs in a _whoosh_ , like he’s been punched in the stomach, and. _Fuck fuck fuck._ He’s still got two fingers pushed up inside him, his other hand still on his cock, can feel the sweat slicking his face, his arms, sticking his hair to his forehead, gluing his shirt to his chest. He feels like he’s frozen in place, eyes wide and mouth open as his lungs try to drag in oxygen. Each inhalation catches on his lips, icy cold as the skin dries.

Harsh breathing and heavy heartbeats and Tom’s not sure if he’s hearing his own or Dougie’s. He hasn’t moved, can’t seem to connect the panic in his brain to the muscle-memory necessary to pull his hands away. Not when his body is still screaming at him to keep going, keep going, because he’s still hard, still turned on, and Dougie is actually _there_ , and Dougie said. Dougie asked. Dougie wants.

“Tom, I.” Dougie’s voice cuts off when he tries to speak again. Tom sees the way his throat moves when he swallows, sees the pink tip of his tongue dart out to wet his lips, and, “Can I?”

Tom still hasn’t moved, though he can feel his muscles shaking, chest heaving as he breathes. He swallows, licks his lips, only half aware he’s mirroring Dougie’s movements, and he doesn’t know what in hell he’s doing, but he’s nodding, and the sound escaping his mouth isn’t words, it’s somewhere between a moan and a whimper.

A hiss of breath escapes Dougie’s mouth, and he swallows again, hard, eyes wide like he’s not really sure he believes what’s happening. Tom’s not really sure what’s happening either, but. He wants this – really _wants_ this.

Tom licks his lips again, feels the moisture sink into dry skin, and Dougie’s still staring at him, never stopped, and Tom can’t stop staring back. Dougie’s slightly flushed, and Tom can see the way his chest rises and falls under his shirt, breathing irregular. Tom still hasn’t moved either of his hands, and maybe that should be a problem, but he’s still so hard and just needs Dougie to be closer, closer, _now_. He twists both wrists just a bit, can’t help it now, needs _something_ , makes himself gasp, back arching just a little from the sudden friction after stillness. He can practically _see_ the way Dougie’s pupils dilate, making his eyes go dark, _can_ see the way his teeth sink into his bottom lip, and.

Dougie takes a step farther into the room, two. “Tom,” his voice is a broken whisper now, and he sounds so unsure, looks like he’s not sure if he should jump Tom or flee, but he doesn’t look away. His eyes flash from Tom’s hands – still moving a little, Tom can’t seem to stop them, twists against them, doesn’t even care what he must look like – up to Tom’s face – lips parted as he breathes, sure he’s flushed and sweaty, doesn’t care, doesn’t care – and back. He takes another step, drops the keycard on the floor, step, step, and Tom can’t look away from him. He pushes up slightly into his fist and down onto his fingers, and can’t seem to stop watching Dougie’s mouth, the way Dougie worries his bottom lip as he moves closer. One more step and Dougie’s thighs hit the side of the bed.

Tom makes a noise in the back of his throat, tries to stop moving, waits for Dougie to touch him, can feel every inch of his skin practically humming in anticipation. He’s not sure how he got to this point, half panic, half thrill, and so fucking turned on it almost hurts, but it’s _Dougie_. Dougie, who is standing over him, watching him like he’s wanted this forever, like he’s tried not to think about it, like he doesn’t know what to do now he has it. And maybe Tom’s projecting, but for once in his life, he doesn’t think so.

Dougie reaches out, but stops halfway, arm suspended in air. “Tom,” he whispers again, a question this time, and Tom shivers at the sound of his voice, needs contact _now_. He drags his hand away from his cock – tiny groan leaving his throat at the brush of calluses against sensitive skin and then the loss of contact – and catches Dougie’s fingers.

“Yes,” Tom’s voice is as soft as Dougie’s, but somehow comes out firm, confident, like he knows what he’s doing, despite the frissons of terror racing down his spine. He can feel Dougie shivering, and somehow the fact that Dougie is maybe freaking out about this just as much as he is makes it easier.

“Yes,” Dougie repeats, almost inaudible, and reaches out with his other hand to touch Tom’s right wrist, pull his hand free, and Tom whimpers a little at the loss, hips lifting of their own volition as they try to follow his fingers. “I. Do you want me to.” Dougie’s eyes dart from Tom’s hand up to his face and.

They’re doing this. They are. They are. And Tom really, really wants this. He’s not sure it’s possible to _not_ want this. Oh god. He needs – he needs to think. His brain seems to be malfunctioning, but. “We need.” He stops. Swallows. Squeezes Dougie’s fingers and tries to breathe, tries to make his body calm down enough to think. It feels like his blood is burning its way through his veins, and he just wants to catch Dougie by the back of the neck and pull him down, but. “We need,” he tries again, because this is important, “lubricant. Some kind of. Do you have?”

And Dougie’s still staring at him, never stopped, but now he looks like he’s maybe trying to process this. “No,” he says. “I. Toilet? They must have some –” he steps back, and Tom’s fingers clench convulsively around Dougie’s. Dougie raises an eyebrow, and it’s such an everyday move that something relaxes in Tom’s chest, like there’d been a fist clenched too tightly underneath his ribs. He releases his grip on Dougie’s hand, and Dougie stumbles away, backwards towards the toilet, tugging his shirt off over his head as he goes, still trying to watch Tom, like he thinks Tom is going to vanish the second he turns his back.

Dougie’s shoes hit the tiling of the toilet floor and he stops, eyes still fixed on Tom, then swallows, cheeks flaming, jerks his head backwards through the doorway, says, “I’ll just,” and disappears inside.

Tom has maybe five dazed seconds where all he can think about is the play of muscles under skin and tattoos. Then his brain starts trying to function again, bringing a wave of, _Oh fuck, oh fuck, what am I doing? What are_ we _doing?_ with the delayed comprehension of, _Dougie just walked in on me in nothing but a shirt, jerking off with my fingers up my arse, and he wants to fuck me and – oh god – I said yes, I said yes._ And under it all is a steady stream of _Dougie Dougie Dougie Dougie_ that’s enough to keep his nerves sparking under too-hot skin, fists clenching and unclenching by his sides in the effort not to touch himself, breathing a little too heavy and pulse a little too fast.

“Do you think this’ll be all right?” Dougie asks, stepping back into the room. He’s down to just jeans and boxers, but his face is slightly twisted with worry and he’s chewing on his lip again, clutching a little bottle of complimentary lotion. “I use it sometimes when I –”

“I also –” Tom says, and “Yeah, I think it should –” because it’s not like he’s ever done this before. He’s tense, wound too tight, and he wants to just _go_ , just do it, wants to get off, wants Dougie touching him – touching him for real – and he’s maybe also panicking a little more than he should be. His hands clench again by his sides, and he feels completely ridiculous, just lying on the bed, waiting, while Dougie frowns down at the bottle in his hand.

Then Dougie looks up at him, lip still between his teeth, and Tom feels uncomfortably exposed, on display. He doesn’t like it. He has the sudden urge to cover himself and, really, that’s stupid, he’s been naked from the waist down since Dougie walked in, and it’s not as if Dougie hasn’t seen him naked before. But it’s suddenly different. It means something now, really means something. They’re going to have sex. But Dougie – Dougie’s not moving.

Tom has the instant horrible thought that maybe Dougie’s staring at him like that because he’s just realized this is Tom he’s got in bed, not Harry or Danny or some random hot girl. Just Tom. And Tom knows he’s never been good enough, never been attractive enough, for their masses of nameless fans to swoon over – he spent long enough with Harry making fun of him, calling him fat, for it to sink in, even though he knows he’s lost weight, grown up, since then – and Harry’s a fucking arsehole, but he knows looks. Tom’s never had to have security throw groupies out of his hotel rooms like the others have, never had to ask for someone to follow him to a club or a bar or the grocery store so he won’t be mobbed. What if Dougie –

“So fucking hot,” Dougie breathes, something like awe in his voice.

Tom blinks at him, because it doesn’t sound like Dougie’s making fun, but.

Dougie must recognize the look on Tom’s face because he’s across the room within a moment, dropping the bottle on the bedside table and leaning in, one hand gripping Tom’s wrist, voice low and certain as he says, “You are, you are. So fucking hot, Tom, you have no idea.” He brings his other hand up to brush the hair out of Tom’s face, fingers cold against Tom’s overheated skin, and Tom hums, can’t help it, head tilting to press into the touch. Dougie’s breath catches, and, “So hot,” he says again, lets his fingers tangle in Tom’s hair.

Tom hums again, loves the feel, eyes slipping closed. Dougie’s wrong, wrong, wrong, but Tom can maybe let himself believe that Dougie believes it. That’s enough.

“Tom, look at me.” It’s more question than anything, but Tom opens his eyes just as Dougie brings up both hands to frame Tom’s face, palms cool but warming fast against his cheeks, tipping his chin up and leaning down to press their mouths together. It’s soft and sweet and they’re so close Dougie’s out of focus.

Tom sighs into it, lets Dougie keep it gentle and slow, making no move to push even when he’s actually trembling from it. Then Dougie ends the kiss and starts to pull away, and that. No. Tom wraps one hand around Dougie’s wrist and the other around the nape of his neck, yanking him back in. Their noses smash from the bad angle, teeth clicking together, and Dougie laughs against Tom’s lips until Tom sucks his tongue into his mouth, and then the laugh turns into a groan, followed by a moment of fumbling that ends with Dougie on the bed, straddling Tom’s thighs.

Dougie’s jeans rub rough against Tom’s legs, but he arches up anyway, needing friction. He releases Dougie’s wrist, drops his hand down to fight with Dougie’s belt, button, zip. His knuckles scrape against his own cock and he gasps into Dougie’s mouth, hips jerking up. He gets the belt undone but gives up on the rest, hooks his fingers under the elastic of Dougie’s boxers and tries to shove boxers and jeans down together, one-handed.

Dougie shifts, tries to support himself on one hand while he uses the other to help Tom. The back of his hand slides over Tom hip, and Tom twists into it without meaning to. Dougie collapses, biting Tom’s tongue and knocking the air out of his lungs in the process.

“Ow, fuck,” Tom hisses, untangling his hand from Dougie’s hair – when it got there he’s not sure – to stick a finger in his mouth to see if he’s bleeding.

“Sorry sorry sorry,” Dougie’s panting, rolls to the side so he’s not squishing Tom underneath him. “Are you bleed–”

Tom glances askance at Dougie when his voice cuts off, realizes Dougie’s gaze is fixed on the finger he has in his mouth, slides it out a little slower than necessary just to see the way Dougie’s eyes darken. “Not bleeding,” he says, and Dougie blinks, eyes flicking up to meet Tom’s.

“Oh, good,” his voice is a little hoarse.

Tom feels himself smile, reaches down to tug on Dougie’s jeans. “Maybe you should –” he starts, and.

“Right, right,” Dougie nods and scrambles out of his remaining clothes, kicking them off the bed, and not even giving Tom the chance to appreciate all the new skin on display before he’s tugging on Tom’s tee-shirt, saying, “Shirt, shirt, get it off, I want to see you,” which is ridiculous, because he’s seen Tom a million times without a shirt on, but Tom can’t find it in him to protest, because Dougie’s hands are skimming up his chest under the fabric, which is amazing, and then they’ve got the shirt tangled around Tom’s head, which is not.

By the time they manage to free Tom from his shirt, he’s starting to get the feeling he’s done something to piss off the universe in a pretty epic fashion. Or maybe he’s just meant to fail. At least that proves this is actually real, and not just some fantasy he’s dreamt up.

Then Dougie rolls on top of him again, and Tom forgets everything else in the delicious rush of skin on skin – oh god – and friction. Dougie nips at Tom’s neck, under his chin, scattering kisses and bites too soft to leave marks, which is probably smart, but the teasing is driving Tom crazy.

“Dougie, Dougie, come on,” Tom grabs Dougie by the back of the neck and pulls him up to lick into his mouth.

Dougie groans into it, drops down onto his forearms so they’re closer, hands high enough to lace through Tom’s hair, holding his head still while he kisses him. Tom arches against him, brings his knees up to frame Dougie’s hips. Dougie groans again, hips grinding down, cock hot and hard against Tom’s, and it’s new but _oh fuck_ is it good.

Tom slides one hand down to Dougie’s arse, pulls him closer, making them both hiss. He tears his mouth away, pants, “Dougie, I want you to fuck me, come on, please.” Because that’s what they’re supposed to be doing, and Tom wants it, wants Dougie, and this is good, really good, but he wants more.

“Yeah, yes, all right,” Dougie’s breath is rough, hips pushing down erratically against Tom’s. “Want to.” He pulls back a little, drags a hand down Tom’s chest, making Tom shiver, fingers circling Tom’s cock, and Tom jerks up into it, groans, eyes falling closed.

“Doug – oh god – Dougie, I –” Not fair, not fair, Tom wants – but this.

“Yeah, okay, um.” Dougie’s breathing is still irregular, but he’s sounding unsure again, and his hand stills on Tom’s cock. Tom whines, pushes up, but, “Should I. Uh. Do you want me to – I want to, but I don’t know if you.”

Tom drags his eyes open, makes a questioning noise, knees tight against Dougie’s sides, one hand still on his arse, the other restlessly sliding across Dougie’s shoulders, back, sides. Dougie should be doing something, anything, needs to move, but Tom can’t push him, can’t, can’t.

“Fingers,” Dougie says, and he’s already flushed, sweating, but Tom thinks he gets a little redder when he says it.

Tom doesn’t hesitate, says, “Yes. Please. Want you to. Need you to,” remembers his own fingers from minutes ago – minutes? hours? it feels like days, at least – wants Dougie’s fingers instead, working him open.

“Lube,” Dougie says. Tom hisses a protest at the loss of contact when Dougie pulls away slightly to lean towards the bedside table, his hand leaving Tom’s cock. He grabs the bottle, says, “Just relax, okay,” like he knows what he’s doing, like he’s done this before, like he doesn’t want Tom to worry about the fact that, no matter how much he’s wanted this – wants this – and _god_ does Tom want this – it’s probably going to hurt a whole hell of a lot. And Tom knows Dougie doesn’t, hasn’t, but he appreciates the sentiment. He appreciates it even more when Dougie slides back, kisses him once, hard, on the mouth, and then wriggles down his body, trailing soft, open-mouthed kisses across Tom’s chest, flicking his nipples with his tongue, making Tom moan.

Then Dougie’s nudging Tom’s legs farther apart, urging him to bend his knees a little more. He wraps one hand around Tom’s cock again, and Tom arches, groan turning into a hiss of shock at the cold slick finger sliding down the crease of his arse before pushing gently, gently in.

“Does it hurt?” Dougie asks instantly, and Tom can hear the worry in his voice, see it on his face when he looks down.

“No,” Tom says, and it doesn’t, at all. “Just cold.” He pushes his hips down, feels Dougie’s finger slide in a little further. It feels odd, but not bad odd. Definitely not bad odd. He tangles one hand in Dougie’s hair – loves it when it’s long – and pets at his neck and shoulders with the other, hips shifting, trying to encourage Dougie to move both hands. “You can use another finger,” he says, breath hitching, sighs when the hand on his cock moves, but.

“Are you sure?” Dougie asks, voice catching. “I only just –”

“Yes, yes, I’m sure,” Tom tugs on Dougie’s hair. “Need more. Come on, Doug.”

“But you –”

“Dougie,” Tom’s voice is breathy and a little desperate, he rocks his hips down a little harder, tries to get Dougie’s finger in deeper, but it’s not enough. “I need more. Please. I did two on my own. I want. I need you to.”

“Right, right,” Dougie says, breathing rough, and, “God, that was hot,” like he’s just remembered, and, “Always so fucking hot,” pressing a kiss to Tom’s stomach, and, “Okay, okay, this okay?” pushing two fingers in.

Tom hisses again, the stretch uncomfortable, but easier than when he did it himself, smoother. “Yeah, okay,” he says, shifts a little, experimentally. “Stings, but okay.”

“Should I stop?” Dougie starts the pull away.

Tom yanks on his hair, hard enough to hear him hiss in protest, says, “No, no, it’s fine. You need to move,” and rocks his hips up into Dougie’s fist and then down onto his fingers to emphasize his point.

“Oh. Oh. Right.” Dougie twists his fingers a little, scissors them. “Like that?”

It feels strange, still a little uncomfortable, but okay, so, “Yeah, that’s fine,” Tom pushes back, just as Dougie’s pressing in, curling his fingers up, and, “ _Oh motherfucking shit_ ,” Tom’s hips jerk down hard against Dougie’s hand as sparks fly all along his nerves, his eyes rolling shut. “Like that, like that,” he says. “There, do that again.”

“This?” Dougie presses again, and Tom curses.

“Yes, yes, that, there. Fuck, fuck, Dougie.” Tom tries not to pull too hard on Dougie’s hair again, other hand skating over his shoulders, neck, touching his cheeks, back to his shoulders. He twists between Dougie’s hands – up into the hand jerking him off, and down onto the fingers stretching him open. He groans. It’s still not enough. “Please, I need more. Dougie, please.” He can barely recognize himself inside this needy stranger, low moans working their way steadily from his throat as he writhes under Dougie’s touch, fucking himself on Dougie’s fingers, but he doesn’t – can’t – manage to care, just needs, “More, Dougs, come on. Need you.”

Tom can feel Dougie breathing hot and heavy against his skin, can hear the soft noises he makes, the rustle of fabric, wonders if Dougie’s rubbing off against the sheets, and that’s not fair, because Tom wants Dougie to fuck him, opens his mouth to say as much, but Dougie slides his hand back and shoves in again with three fingers, and, “Motherfucking _fuck_ ,” he gasps, jerking, half his body coming up off the bed, because that _hurts_ like _hell_ , but Dougie hit him just right and all Tom can see are sparks.

“Tom, Tom, are you all right? I’m sorry. Did I –” Dougie’s voice is still hoarse, but with an edge of panic now, and he’s pressing kisses to Tom’s stomach, his hips, his thighs, hand on Tom’s cock still moving gently, almost soothing, hand that’s half inside Tom gone completely still, fingers still pressed firmly against Tom’s prostate.

And Tom means to say, “Fuck, that hurt, hold on, give me a minute, I just need a minute,” but what comes out of his mouth is, “Fuck, Dougie. Need you to fuck me. Now, Dougs, please.” And he grinds down onto Dougie’s fingers, gasps and curses again. “Please, Dougie. Need you. Need this. Need you to fuck me.”

Dougie makes a sharp noise, then moans, “Fuck, Tom,” the sound so low it’s almost a growl. He adds something that sounds like, “God, you’re trying to kill me.”

Tom’s about to say he’s not, he’s really not, and Dougie can’t die, especially not right now, but then Dougie’s _gone_ , not touching Tom at all, and all that comes out is a whimper. He forces his eyes open as the mattress dips, and sees Dougie half off the bed, fumbling frantically with his jeans. “Dougie.” It’s more of a whine than Tom intended, but, seriously, what the fuck?

“Condom, need a condom,” Dougie says. And, _oh, right, of course, that makes sense,_ the somewhat less hazy corner of Tom’s brain agrees. Dougie makes a triumphant sound, holding up a foil packet, dropping his wallet and jeans back on the ground as he slides back onto the bed.

Tom watches, can’t help it, as Dougie rolls the latex down, can’t help the noise that bubbles up from his throat when Dougie shivers at his own touch. And then Dougie’s looking at Tom again, petting his ankles, calves, knees, thighs.

“Like this?” Dougie asks, voice catching a little. “Or do you want to –” he makes a ‘roll over’ gesture.

“Like this,” Tom says, but it’s more of a question than he’d like it to be.

“All right,” Dougie says, and looks a little relieved. “Good. I. I want to see you.”

“All right, good,” Tom echoes, then, “Dougie, come on, just do it, please.” Tom would really, really just like for Dougie to fuck him now. He’s so hard it hurts and he feels weirdly empty without Dougie’s fingers, but he’s also a little bit terrified, and would really like to stop thinking about it.

Dougie meets Tom’s eyes, and his voice is still rough, but he sounds dead serious when he says, “Tell me to stop and I will.” He doesn’t move or look away until Tom nods.

Tom keeps his eyes on Dougie as he moves forward again, between Tom’s knees, shifts both of them, hooking one hand under Tom’s thigh to push it up a little higher. And Tom feels so fucking open and vulnerable like this, in a way he hadn’t really thought about, and that’s really fucking scary, but this is _Dougie_ , so.

Tom focuses on Dougie’s face, the way he bites his lip in concentration, how blown his pupils are and how dark it makes his eyes look, the sweat gleaming on his upper lip, in the hollow of his throat, the way it makes his hair stick to his forehead. He tries not to move, keep still except for the way his chest is practically heaving with each breath, tries to force his body to relax as Dougie lines up and pushes in.

And, oh, oh god, fuck, _fuck_ , it _hurts_. Hurts more than two fingers, more than three, a lot more, and Tom knows Dougie is going so slowly because he doesn’t want to hurt Tom more than he can help, but Tom can’t handle this. “Fuck, Dougie,” he says, and grabs Dougie’s hips, pulling down hard as he pushes up. And oh, _motherfucking fuck_. His eyes squeeze shut and he bites his lip to keep from screaming, tastes blood.

“Oh god,” Dougie sounds panicked. “Oh god,” he says again. “Tom, Tom, are you – did that – oh god, I’m so, so sorry. Oh god, Tom,” and Dougie’s smoothing down Tom’s side with one hand – braced on the other – petting his shoulders, his hair, pressing kisses to his chin, cheeks, forehead, eyelids, and thankfully staying still, not even trying to pull out, like he knows that would just make it worse.

“Just. Just give me a minute,” Tom says, and he can hear how tight his voice is, taste copper on his tongue. “Just. Don’t move.”

“Right, right. Anything you need.” Dougie leans his forehead against Tom’s, and Tom can feel him shaking from the strain of not moving, of holding himself up. But he doesn’t say anything, just stays as still as he can, shares heavy breaths with Tom while Tom waits for his body to adjust, the pain to recede.

Tom finally shifts a little and, okay, all right, that’s not so bad, he can handle that. He cracks his eyes open, sees Dougie’s closed above him, and tilts his head up to press a kiss to Dougie’s parted lips. Dougie kisses back, moans into it, follows Tom for a moment when Tom pulls away.

“Are you. Are you all right now?” Dougie asks, and his voice is a little wrecked, a little pained.

Tom says, “Yes, yes. You can move, just. Slow, first?”

Dougie says, “Of course, of course,” and pulls out a little, pushes back in. Tom realizes he’s still gripping Dougie’s hips, fingers tight enough to bruise, and lets go, sliding his hands up to tangle in Dougie’s hair, pull him down for another kiss, hard and quick.

Dougie pulls out again, pushes in. It still hurts, but it’s not bad. _Better_. And the look on Dougie’s face is so fucking amazing Tom thinks it would be worth it anyway, has a fleeting, momentary thought of, _I have to see that again, every day for fucking ever,_ but his body’s adjusting fast, and then Dougie shifts and the angle changes, cock sliding in deeper and – “God, yes, there,” Tom gasps, eyes rolling shut again. Then, “Fuck, yes, harder, Dougie, fucking _move_.”

“Oh, fuck, Tom,” Dougie hisses, and Tom can still feel him holding back, feel the tension everywhere they touch. “Fuck. I. So tight, Tom. I don’t want. I don’t want to hurt you. Oh, fuck, look at me, Tom.”

Tom forces his eyes open, gaze zeroing in on Dougie’s mouth, lower lip bitten red and Tom needs to. He stretches his neck, pressing his mouth to Dougie’s, tongue swiping across Dougie’s lip, tasting.

Dougie whimpers a little, breathes, “Tom,” against Tom’s mouth, and Tom can feel him shaking.

Tom’s heart is beating a million miles an hour, and this. This is not working for him. “You won’t hurt me,” he says, lips moving against Dougie’s skin. And it’s half a lie, because Tom already hurts, but he really doesn’t fucking care right now, needs this too much. “Come on,” he says, licks a thin stripe up to Dougie’s ear, tastes the salt of sweat. “Fuck me, just –” he sets his teeth just below the gauge, tugs lightly, drops his voice low and whispers, “– come on and _fuck me_.”

“ _Fuck_ ,” Dougie growls, turns his head to meet Tom’s mouth again – can’t seem to stop – pulls out, and slams back in, hard.

_Yes,_ Tom thinks, hips jerking up to meet the thrust, sucks Dougie’s tongue into his mouth, shifts a little to wrap his legs around Dougie’s waist, heels pressing against Dougie’s thighs as he pushes up to meet him.

Dougie nips at Tom’s lip, pushes in harder each time until they’re both panting against each other, not even kissing anymore. “So hot like this,” Dougie gasps, “Wantedyou – wanted you. For so long. Want you so much, want to watch you come.”

“Shit, Doug,” Tom arches up into him, cock hard between them, friction from their bodies driving him mad, but it’s not nearly enough. “Dougs, Dougie, touch me, please,” and Tom wonders vaguely if maybe he should just do it himself, but he can’t seem to let go of Dougie’s shoulders, his hair.

Dougie just says, “Fuck yes,” and slides a hand between them, curls it around Tom’s cock – makes Tom whine and arch up again. And it’s so much better than Tom’s own hand would be, sweat and precome easing the glide, Dougie’s fingers warm and callused and _his_ , better even than Tom ever imagined. They find a rhythm, break it, find it again.

Tom whines again, heat building low in his stomach, making him writhe, push his hips down harder onto Dougie’s cock and up into his hand. He’s not going to last – not going to last, and he doesn’t even care, wants to come, wants Dougie to come, wants to come with Dougie inside him.

“Oh _god_ ,” Dougie moans, and Tom wonders if maybe he said that out loud. “So fucking amazing,” Dougie pants, “God, Tom, you are _so fucking amazing_.” He mashes his mouth against Tom’s again, drags his thumb over the head of Tom’s cock, pulls out and slams in a little harder, a little faster, a little rougher.

Tom can’t really form words anymore, couldn’t even without Dougie swallowing every sound he makes, tries and fails. His hands scrabble over Dougie’s back, the play of muscles under his palms sending shivers up his arms. He’s hot, sweaty, tingling everywhere they touch, skin oversensitive, overheated. Dougie ducks his head, tonguing a kiss against Tom’s chest, right at the point of the star, and the uneven tips of his bangs brush over Tom’s throat, make him twist and squirm and try to push even closer. “Need – need to –” Tom manages to get out, then gives up on words and just hums a little desperately.

“Want you to,” Dougie’s mouth is against Tom’s throat, his jaw. “Fuck. I’m gonna –” his voice breaks for a moment, then his hand tightens around Tom’s cock, jerks a little more roughly. He drives his hips down faster. “Want you to come. Gonna make you come first. Want to make you come.” He twists his wrist hard, slams in again, and Tom’s done for, coming hard between them, over Dougie’s hand and both their stomachs, gasping and choking out what might be a scream, fingers grasping at Dougie’s arms, digging in as his back arches, muscles clenching as he shudders through it, hot and intense and lights flashing behind his lids. He can feel Dougie follow him over, hears him curse and gasp Tom’s name, before he collapses against him, still trembling.

Tom winces when Dougie pulls out, fresh pain registering through his post-orgasmic haze. The mattress dips as Dougie rolls away, and Tom doesn’t look, but he can hear him getting rid of the condom. He’s a little sore – knows it will probably be worse later – and disgustingly sticky, covered in drying sweat and come, but right now he doesn’t care, only cares that he’s cold where Dougie’s no longer touching him. He must make some kind of noise, because Dougie’s back in an instant, pressing warm and solid against his side, nuzzling a little and pressing soft kisses to Tom’s shoulder, throat, cheek, mumbling, “Okay, okay, are you okay?” and “I didn’t hurt you too much, did I?” and “So good, so good, so fucking good,” and “Tom Tom Tom Tom,” amid streams of nonsense.

“Thank you,” Tom says, and that’s not really what he meant to say, but he’s still a feeling a little floaty, and isn’t really sure what he _should_ say.

Dougie laughs, sound soft, breath gusting across Tom’s skin, making him shiver. “Anytime,” he says, then pokes Tom in the side, says, “You’re not allowed to panic about this.”

Tom turns his head, has to squint a little to see Dougie’s face at that angle. “I’m not,” he says, and it’s true, he’s not panicking.

“Not now,” Dougie says comfortably, “but you will. You’ll wake up in the middle of the night and start to worry about our friendship, or the band, or if I’m going to be here in the morning. I know you.”

“I will not,” but even Tom doesn’t think he sounds particularly convincing. He can already feel the little niggling doubts at the back of his mind, and he’s trying to ignore them, but.

Dougie huffs another laugh, pokes Tom a little harder in the ribs, ignores Tom’s “ow!” of protest. He props himself up on his arms so he’s looking down at Tom again, and purses his lips. “You’re already starting,” he says. “Stop it. This isn’t going to ruin our friendship, or the band. We don’t even have to tell Harry and Danny if you don’t want to. But I wouldn’t have done this if it wasn’t something I’d already wanted – if _you_ weren’t something I already wanted – for a long time, and you should know me well enough to know that. I wouldn’t have risked it. Not with you. I would have gone right back out the door when I saw you wanking, and mocked you for it in the morning – after I had got done telling you off for making me worry by hanging up on me after calling me at the club.” He pokes Tom again, frowns at him a little.

“Sorry,” Tom says, the apology completely automatic. His brain is still trying to process everything, still hovering too close to the edge of panic.

“Turned out all right,” Dougie’s frown twists itself into a grin, and he rests his forehead briefly against Tom’s. “I’m going to be here in the morning,” he says, voice soft and serious, “and not just because we’re sharing this room. I have wanted you for far too long to give you up now I’ve finally got you, even if I hadn’t actually thought I’d get you like this.” He pulls back slightly, far enough that he’s in focus again. “I asked,” he says. “I asked and you said yes, and you don’t –” he pauses, then, “and you wouldn’t have done any of this if you didn’t want it as much as I do. If it didn’t mean something to you. I know you don’t like one-night stands and indifferent hook-ups, so this had to be something more than casual, and I –” he stops, breathes, grins again, then, “So unless you _want_ this to be a one-off, you’re stuck with me.”

Tom blinks up at him, mentally scrambling to catch up. “I,” he says, stops, blinks some more.

Dougie smirks. “Thought so.” He leans down and kisses Tom on the nose, startling a laugh. And just like that, everything’s okay again.

“Get off,” Tom grumbles, knows he’s grinning now and can’t bring himself to care. He shoves Dougie anyway, who collapses on top of him. “Ow, fuck,” Tom curses, muscles protesting, and Dougie pulls away instantly.

“Sorry, sorry,” he says, then shoves Tom lightly in retaliation. “Your fault though. Also, gross.” He looks between Tom’s stomach and his own, makes a face.

Tom sits up and swings his feet over the side of the bed with a series of winces. “I’m going to clean up.” He stands, bites his lip to keep from making any noise.

Dougie makes a choking sound, and when Tom looks at him, he’s got two knuckles in his mouth to keep from laughing.

“Oh, fuck you,” Tom scowls, but he can feel his lips twitching.

“Only finished what you started,” Dougie retorts, taking his fingers out of his mouth and wiggling them.

Tom feels his face go hot. “Fuck you,” he says again, and turns away so Dougie can’t see the way he’s grinning, because, well, he might hurt like hell, but it was definitely worth it.

“Hey, hey,” the bed creaks a little and then Dougie’s stopping Tom at the door to the toilet, wrapping arms around his waist, shifting up onto his toes to hook his chin over Tom’s shoulder. “We are. We are all right, aren’t we? I wasn’t wrong? About you wanting this, too.”

Tom can hear the hesitation in his voice, now, and Dougie was right, Tom is worried a bit, but. He wants this. He hadn’t planned it, hadn’t expected it, hadn’t ever thought it could happen – definitely not like this – but. He wants this. Wants Dougie. Wants – whatever this could be. Wants it so much, has wanted it. He twists around in Dougie’s arms, presses their foreheads together, says, “So far from wrong,” says, “Better than all right, so much better,” says, “Wanted this for so long,” then ducks his head to kiss Dougie’s lips, light and chaste, palms against his cheeks, and he feels a little ridiculous, but. It’s _Dougie_ , so.

Dougie’s grinning when Tom pulls away, and Tom grins back, realizes abruptly – _oh, yeah, still very, very naked_ – flushes, says, “Cleaning up would be good just now,” but can’t help the spread of his own grin when Dougie laughs.

“All right, all right,” Dougie says, grabs his wrist and tugs him into the toilet.

Tom bats Dougie’s hands away when he tries to clean them both up, takes the washcloth himself, says, “I’m already regretting moving, thanks to you,” and shakes his head when Dougie smirks at him.

Dougie grumbles under his breath when Tom digs a pair of boxers out of his duffle, but doesn’t say anything when Tom frowns at him, just pulls on a pair of his own and slips into the unruffled, clean bed, holding the covers back for Tom.

Tom refuses to think about it – feels himself go red anyway – just slides in next to him and lets Dougie prod him into a position suitable for curling into.

“So am I your boyfriend, now?” Dougie asks, pulling Tom’s arms around his waist and tangling their legs together. There’s definite laughter in his voice, curving his lips into a grin, but Tom knows him well enough to know he’s serious.

“You can even wear my pin,” Tom tells him, waits for Dougie’s laugh, because he’s serious, too. It’s safe to joke.

Dougie’s grin widens, but. “Danny and Harry?”

Tom tilts his head to meet Dougie’s eyes, holds them for a long moment, swallows, takes a breath, says, “You want to tell them.” It’s not a question.

“And you?”

Tom opens his mouth to answer, shuts it, thinks about it, realizes, “I guess I do.” And Dougie’s face lights right the fuck up. It makes Tom feel stupidly warm, but he thinks that’s maybe okay now.

“They’re going to hate us within a week,” Dougie promises, tackles Tom onto his back again, ignores Tom’s wince and halfhearted protest, presses in for a kiss, mouth hot and wet.

Tom laughs against Dougie’s lips, murmurs, “We can buy them earplugs, they’ll love that.”

Dougie nips Tom’s lip, says, “Fifty-year supply,” then lets the kiss turn lazy and sweet for a moment before pulling away, settling down again, head on Tom’s shoulder.

Tom’s pretty sure his arm will be dead in the morning from the weight, but for now, he just tilts his head against Dougie’s and lets his body sink into the mattress. “See you in the morning,” he says, and it’s mostly habit, but Dougie whispers,

“Be right here,” and curls closer.

And Tom. Tom’s pretty sure he wouldn’t change that for anything.

**Author's Note:**

> The film Tom sees on the TV is "Maurice."
> 
> Basically, this fic went more or less thusly:
> 
> **Me:** ::sees [this article](http://www.guardian.co.uk/music/2008/sep/30/popandrock.celebrity) and does what any insane girl would do: starts writing, hits a roadblock, and turns to her beta in the middle of the street in Jersey:: Say I were to hypothetically be writing a story in which Tom doesn't go out clubbing with the others, but stays in the hotel by himself to write, and gets frustrated when the song won't work.  
>  **Maddy:** Are you writing this?  
>  **Me:** I said it was hypothetical. So, hypothetically, if I were writing this story, and Dougie were to hypothetically come back and walk in on Tom, what would Tom be doing? Hypothetically.  
>  **Maddy:** (no hesitation whatsoever) He should be fingering himself.  
>  **Me:** Huh. Okay. That works.  
>  **Maddy:** Are you serious?  
>  **Me:** Yes. Why not? This is me.  
>  **Maddy:** I wasn't serious, but oh my god. ::flails::  
>  **Me:** ::flails even more::  
>  **Maddy:** ::proceeds to bug me to get this thing finished, because, seriously, not so much with the hypothetical::  
>  (This conversation took place before a Panic at the Disco concert in Jersey, while ignoring both the cops - who attempted to steal our hot drinks because they could not take a break to get their own - and the crazy Panic fans in turn.)


End file.
